All for a Song by Allison Pittman Read Free Book Online Page A

it’s melting from the flames of the birthday candles.
    “Well, there you are,” Charlotte says, just as Mr. Scott says her name. If Lynnie could be granted just one more word— just one more chance to speak, dear Jesus —it would be to tell Miss Charlotte Hill to shut up.
    “This young lady is one hundred and seven years old. Can you believe that? And looking just as lovely as a sweet spring chicken.”
    Oh, Willard. Not everybody gets that kind of commentary.
    “Says she spent her youth singing in the church choir. And that she’s seen the light and can’t wait to go back.”
    And that is it. Her moment over. The jar spins on to reveal a one-hundred-and-one-year-old who still walks his two poodles around the block every day.
    “Sing in the church choir?” Charlotte drops the spoon back in the cooling Cream of Wheat and tears off another piece of muffin. “That’s nuts.”
    Lynnie picks up the spoon and runs it slowly around the edge of the bowl.
    “Can I tell you a secret?” Declaring the meal over, the girl moves the tray to the stand near the door and comes back to sit herself right next to Lynnie on the bed. “I lied. Earlier? I mean, I have been arrested before. And had to serve some community service. But not here, not now.”
    She bends down to whisper, even though they are clearly alone. Her breath smells like cinnamon.
    “I came up here on my own because, unlike Mr. TV there, I know you didn’t just sing in a choir. I know exactly who you are.”

Darlene and her husband, Roy, lived in a modest home on the outskirts of St. Louis, though Darlene seemed determined to elevate its status. The house was painted a shade of soft powdery blue, trimmed in a deep lacquered red. Flower beds lined the cobblestone walkway to the front porch. There, two wrought-iron benches flanked a gilded screen door where Dorothy Lynn stood, listening to the sounds of screaming on the other side. The actual words were muffled, but the scene was clear—the boys had gotten into one mischief or another, and thus were the victims of Darlene’s vocal admonishment.
    Dorothy Lynn took what she knew would be the last peaceful breath for a while. She dropped her bag on the porch and pressed the bell but kept the guitar in its sack slung over her aching shoulder. It had been a long five-block walk from the bus stop. She cocked her head toward the door and listened as the rumpus died down. Moments later, Darlene appeared behind the filigree and swung the door wide.
    “Come in, come in! You should have telephoned from the station, or I could have told Roy to bring you home.”
    “Little walk never hurt no one,” Dorothy Lynn said. “And just look at you! Ma would say you look positively radiant.”
    “That’s because Ma’s a liar,” Darlene said, ushering her into the front parlor. It was papered in a bold combination of stripes and florals—two of the seven different patterns of wallpaper to be found throughout the house.
    “Won’t be too much longer,” Dorothy Lynn said. The last time she’d seen her sister had been at their father’s funeral, and then the baby had been more of a suggestive lump—boosted by the leftover softness of its older brothers. Now Darlene carried it like a sidecar.
    “Can’t be soon enough. Here, let me look at you, Miss Bride-to-Be.”
    Dorothy Lynn braced herself for Darlene’s barely masked indulgent pity.
    “I can’t believe you still haven’t cut your hair, Dot.”
    “Ma says a woman’s hair is her crowning beauty. Well, not Ma, but the Bible, I guess.”
    “Ma should recognize that we’re well into the twentieth century. She herself could look much more chic. And that dress?” She clucked her tongue. “At least you’re wearing shoes.”
    Dorothy Lynn shrank under her sister’s scrutiny. Even eight months gone in ninety-degree heat, and Darlene still looked like something from a fashion plate. Her dress was some sort of sea-green foamy material that draped across her rounded